


Fear and doubting in Camden Town

by flowersaretarts



Series: Violets [13]
Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Alcohol, Emotions, Fluff, M/M, Marwood - Freeform, Missing, Romance, Separation, Train Station, Worries, doubts, withnail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersaretarts/pseuds/flowersaretarts





	Fear and doubting in Camden Town

Vyvian was not much of a writer.  
He wouldn't send a single card back home.  
The horrible production of Bernard Shaw went touring around the furthest depth of rural England. Not much of a job, but Withnail couldn’t conceal his glee, even though he said all the nasty things possible about it.  
He was finally employed, which meant the life went on.  
He had to leave London, which meant he and Peter would be apart for a month or more.  
Would he be seduced, would he cheat? Would he get rogue and offend other actors, or a director? Would he get drunk and vandalize a hotel room? 

He is always sure that he can have anyone he wants, at any time. But only Peter would give him what he needs. 

Worried sick, Peter drank way more than he ought to. He got used to care about his idiotic fop, who could not wipe his own nose at times.  
And this was stronger than jealousy.  
Every day of that month he went home alone. Sometimes a bunch of old friends would come over, but he would still see nothing but the empty armchair, where his darling friend should have been sitting.  
Every morning Marwood would wake up on the sofa hugging a pillow.  
Then writing, writing, writing words, the more he wrote the less sense they made. Playing music loudly to escape the silence.  
Turning on the radio. Thinking of what Vyv would say if he read what Pete had just read. Talking to himself.  
Wondering and hoping that Vyv was missing him as much. His anxious heart never ceased to doubt whether Withnail genuinely cared for him.  
There were too many contradictions in his behaviour and words. Too much of pretence and so less of sincerity. Yet deep inside Peter kept that doomed hope that all the little touches, glances, chores done in spite of the attitude they had been done with… that they all meant what he wanted them to mean.

The month passed and there he was, at the train station, an hour earlier than it said on the telegram.  
He walked along the platform looking nervously at his wristwatch. Checking the time on the station clock.  
"What if I am wrong, what if I forgot and he comes tomorrow? What if something happens...no, no, no, shut up, you dumbfuck. He will arrive, he will be ok, he will be happy to see me...will he?"  
The anxious little man pacing to and fro in is battered leather coat. Smoking one cigarette after the other.  
Then it's finally 10:30, and the train was late. Peter got mad at himself for having too much coffee in the morning. He desperately needed to go for a slash. But what if the train comes...Shit, his bladder was nearly bursting.  
He ran to the gents'. Never had these walls seen a man doing is business so swiftly. He zips up on the way out, rushes outside, back on a platform. To see that the train had already arrived.  
The doors spit out country lads and farmers and their wives and their snotty kids.

Which car was it, which number? God, god, god. Where's the note? No, not the note… The telegram!  
Fifth. The fifth car, you bloody fool.

Now he had to run all along the platform. Being pushed by the wankers, dodging the suitcases.  
He was looking for the tall figure in a trilby hat. But nothing similar was there. The fifth car was half empty by then.

Short Peter winced, standing on his tiptoes, struggling to look inside through the window. Faces stared back at him: a kid chewing an apple, a woman with curly perm, a huge bastard with a black beard and a lazy eye. But not a sign of Withnail.

He was greeted by some actors who had arrived by the same train, but they were too busy and merely helloed him to rush forward.  
“Where's Vyv?” - but no more than a mouse squeak came out.

He got to the train car door, waiting for last passenger to leave. Nobody got out. No more. Marwood’s chest felt heavy.

"Maybe he was in another car? Could he leave without looking for me? Maybe he really doesn't care… maybe the bastard was already in a cab...why would he need me..."

"Where the fuck have you been?" said the voice behind him.  
Peter turned around to bump into a tall handsome gentleman in a long grey coat. He sported an exquisite moustache, his chin up high when he was looking down at Peter, who was shabby and miserable small rat, with crazy bed hair untouched by a comb for days, and a two-days stubble.

"What the fuck was wrong with you, Jesus, you've got yolk on your jumper! I knew I shouldn't have left you on your own. Such a liability."

And Peter hung his head low. Ashamed. He disappointed Vyv again. Not just he had missed the arrival, he also looked dreadful, especially next to this embodiment of elegance.

When suddenly two arms were wrapped around him.  
The gentle touch of fingers running through Marwood’s tangled curls. The hands he missed so much seemed so caring, so true.  
That’s double shame, sir. You doubted him, and look at you two. Now feel that and face your shame.


End file.
